Author Note: this story was written about four years ago as part of a vampire/horror/dark fantasy challenge. It is a little over 1400 words. Enjoy!
Warnings: this is a vampire/horror story, so there is blood and death.
Hot shower. Hot shower, hot shower, hot shower.
Kit Halloway chanted those two words over and over as she marched up the long stairway to the sixth floor, heavy grocery bags in each hand. All she could smell was the grease and meat she’d been serving at the fast food restaurant down the road, where she’d pulled a double-shift. Her feet ached, her back ached far more, and all she wanted was a shower and some dinner.
So, of course, the elevator was broken and she had to walk up to the sixth floor with heavy grocery bags.
“Thank the gods,” she muttered as she finally reached the door to her floor. “Fourth time in eight months that damn elevator has broken down,” she murmured as she took a left to the end of the hall.
She was seriously starting to think the thing had it in for her.
When she reached the door to her apartment, she carefully moved her hand to the knob while balancing the bag.
The door was locked.
“Are you kidding me?” she murmured irritably. Then, after taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door, praying her roommate was home as planned. “Tessa,” she said loud enough so she could be heard through the door. “The door’s locked and I have a bunch of groceries—could you open the door, please?”
No answer.
Kit knocked louder, shuffling the bags slightly. “Tessa?”
Please be home, Tessa. Please.
She really didn’t want to put the bags down and fish the keys out of her purse.
Kit pounded twice on the door, surprised the nosy neighbor to their left hadn’t opened her own door to complain about the “ruckus”.
“Tessa!”
Leaning her ear against the door, she strained to hear for movement. After a few moments, her heart sank. She set the bags on the ground then fished her keys from her purse. Irritation started to turn to anger—which she knew was unjustified as she was just having a bad day—as she slid the key into the lock and turned it.
Opening the door, she found that the lights were on in the kitchen and living room, but no sign of Tessa.
That was unusual. If Tessa left the apartment, she only left the hallway light on.
“Tess?” she called out as she maneuvered the grocery bags into her arms. “You home?”
Silence.
Once she had the door closed—kicking it closed with her foot—Kit made her way to the kitchen, which was open to the living room, and set the bags on the counter then set her purse down as well.
Reaching into a bag, she grabbed the orange juice and walked over to the fridge. As she did so she noticed that Tessa’s purse was on the work bench to the left of the refrigerator. That made her pause: hand on the fridge door.
“Tess?” she called out once more. Again, the inquiry went unanswered.
Anxiousness began to coil slowly in her gut, replacing the irritation, as she looked down the dark hallway past the living room. The apartment was so quiet that her ears began to ring, which only deepened the unease sweeping through her.
Her roommate, and best friend, would never leave the apartment without her purse. Not even if she was visiting a neighbor on the same floor.
Placing the juice back on the counter, Kit grabbed a large knife from their gourmet set—Tessa being a chef, the set was top-of-the-line. Slowly, with her gut now in a tight knot, she made her way to the hall, preparing herself the best she could for the worst possible situation while praying for the best. Especially when she saw the light coming from under the door of the bedroom.
Something was wrong.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she called out one more time. “Tessa? You okay?”
Leaning close to the door, she listened intently, and when she heard no sounds of sleep—Tessa was known to lightly snore—the worry turned to fear. A fear that something horrible had happened and Tessa couldn’t call out.
Stamping down her fear the best she could, she placed her hand on the knob, took a deep breath, and then opened the door: her grip on the knife tightening as she pushed it opened wide.
The sight before her made her heart skip a beat, and the knife slipped in what seemed like slow motion from her hand.
Blood covered the off-white sheets and pale purple blankets of the bed. One of Tessa’s arms was stretched out while the other was at her side. Her head was turned towards the door: eyes open and full of fear. Her mouth slightly agape, and blood covered her neck and chest. Legs bent at the knees, pointing towards the door as well.
“Oh God,” Kit gasped then rushed to her friend’s side. She quickly checked for pulse—her hand shaking. “Tessa! Tess! Damn it,” she cursed as her fingers slipped on the blood as she tried to find a pulse. “Calm down, Kit, calm down. She needs you.”
Shit. She couldn’t find a pulse.
Kit moved her hand to the other side Tessa’s neck, hoping to find a pulse, but her fingers slipped into gash.
With horror, she turned Tessa’s head: a large, gaping wound, about two inches long and an inch wide, still oozed blood. Starting just below the jugular. Her hand covered the wound as she fought panic, and she suddenly realized that the blood was warm, and so was her friend’s skin.
This just happened. “Shit. Shit.”
She ran into the bathroom, grabbed some towels, and ran back to Tessa, swiping the cell phone off the nightstand before pressing a towel to Tessa’s neck with as much pressure as she could as she grabbed Tessa’s landline on the night stand.
Why the hell didn’t you grab your cellphone, Kit!
“That’s not going to work, poppet.”
Her entire body froze at the deep, male voice behind her.
A cold breeze ran up her spine suddenly: the man’s breath on the back of her neck.
How did he get behind me so quickly after speaking? I didn’t even hear a sound!
“Come now, poppet.” A pale hand pressed gently against hers, the one that held the towel to Tessa’s neck. His skin was ice cold. “Let her die. She’s already kissing the other side,” he whispered in her ear, sending icicles up down her spine.
Tessa…
Looking down at her friend, realizing that his words meant Tessa was still clinging to life, Kit unfroze—her hand pressing the towel harder against the wound. “No.”
“Let her go,” he said calmly and softly.
Steeling herself, she replied forcefully, “No. Let me call for help.”
He chuckled, and the sound rolled through her in a wave, caressing her bones. “She sealed her fate long ago.” His fingers dug into her hand. “But I will make you a deal—I will call for help, keep her alive long enough for them to reach her, if you agree to replace her as my pet.”
Confusion rattled her, her eyebrows furrowing. “What do you mean? Tessa is no one’s pet?”
His lips brushed her cheek, and then sharp teeth grazed her skin. She stilled her once more.
“She is indeed my pet, as so many others have been through the centuries. If you want to save her, I suggest you make a quick decision, Ms. Halloway.”
Centuries? The confusion deepened, but worry and panic about Tessa’s well-being was a far greater force. She couldn’t let her die, and she was betting he knew that. “How will I know how she fares?” she whispered.
“I will make certain you know. She has two minutes left in her if I don’t stop the bleeding. Choose. Trade your life and freedom for hers, or you both die.”
That was not a choice. She’d die for Tessa, and the guilt from not trying to save her would be all-consuming.
“Save her.” She was confident in her choice, though she knew whatever he had planned for her would most likely be a living hell.
“Good girl.”
Dizziness rocked through her a split second after his words: a strong arm wrapped around her as she started to fall forward, blackness edging her vision.
His pleasure touched her mind—somehow she felt it—as her body went completely limp.
They made me lie on my side, IV dangling over the edge. My mouth was numb and full of green plastic and they were pushing the fentanyl and the midazolam. I was very sick and they were going to find out why.
and I remember being awake but not knowing what they were doing to me. They must have but I didn't feel it. My body did, and it retched, and that's how I can remember that moment. I was retching but my brain had been disconnected from my body and so I just dispassionately watched myself try to vomit up an endoscope that I couldn't feel and wasn't even sure was inside me.
My notes say I tolerated the procedure well, but when I try to recall anything beyond these shards, all I find is a nauseating disquiet. It reminds me of chewing over a vivid nightmare; the more I poke at it, the more it tatters away and leaves me with an endlessly growing ghost in its place. The visual memory is gone, and so there is only a bad feeling left to follow me around. The sedation made me feel so relaxed that when something objectively distressing happened to me, I didn't fight it. Something bad happened and I didn't care. Something bad happened and I liked it. Something bad happened and I want it to happen again.
I am scared that I will forget the retching and the pain and violation, and that all I will be left with is a sterile smiling face scrawled across a procedure file that proclaims I tolerated the procedure well. I liked being sedated, and I liked being investigated and the tantalising promise of help that it symbolised. I tolerated the procedure and I did it well. Does that mean I was well-liked by the doctor? Did I behave normally when they put the tube down my throat?
Later, I learned the diagnosis. My stomach is escaping through my diaphragm into my lungs, it's called having a skittish stomach and it is most common in neurotic young women. I also have sleepy stomach disorder, which means my stomach doesn't digest food. The doctor says it doesn't need any treatment, and the weight loss is to be enjoyed, not worried about. He says I'm the luckiest girl in the world and lots of other girls would kill for my sleepy skittish stomach.
The Earth, as it was generally understood, rested on the backs of four enormous Elephants, the supposed “four corners” of the Earth. These Elephants themselves are, in turn, supported from underneath by the titanic shell of a gigantic turtle. This turtle is supported from below by another, even bigger turtle, which in turn is supported from beneath by an even bigger turtle, and so on; Turtles all the way down.
Nemi was the 349th Turtle down, supporting Lucius above her, and being supported by Clive below. They didn’t talk much, though they played Bridge on Thursdays, and held a Book Club meeting every other month with the four immediate other turtles above and below them. (Last month had been “Her Fearful Symmetry” by Audrey Niffenegger, which Nemi had found to be somewhat of a let-down compared to “The Time Traveller’s Wife” by the same author, which the group had read the previous year.)
Most days were spent in silent contemplation of the Cosmos in all its chaotic splendor, but Nemi had begun to wonder lately if this there all there was to life.
She brought this up with her Bridge partners one Thursday afternoon.
“What do you mean?” asked Lucius.
“Well, is this it? Is this the be-all and end-all of our existence?” Nemi replied.
“I’m not sure I follow,” Clive responded, his voice a comforting hum on her belly.
“It just seems…I dunno…transient. I support Lucius, who supports Willow and so on. And Clive, you support me and you’re supported by Constance, who is supported by Ed and so forth. It’s like…what’s the point?”
“To support the Earth.” Lucius replied, matter-of-factly.
“How do we even know there is an Earth? Have you seen it?”
Lucius had to admit, being the 348th Turtle, he had not.
“Well then. Why do we bother?”
“To support each other.” Clive rumbled, not unkindly. “Who would support Lucius if you did not? Who would I support if you weren’t here?”
“You could always support Lucius.”
“True. Let me put it another way…what would you do otherwise?”
“I don’t know. Go see other parts of the Cosmos? Discover the mysteries of creation? Learn to knit?”
“Ooh! I could teach you!” Came a cry from far below.
“I don’t know about all this. How would you even leave the column?” Lucius wondered.
Nemi shuffled forward slightly to look over the edge of Clive’s shell. Below she could see Constance, a mammoth presence in the eternal half light of creation. If she squinted a little she could just make out Ed, a leviathan of the deep infinity.
She craned her neck up and could see regressing turtles stretching to the heavens, where eventually, supposedly, the Earth sat like the topper on top of an insane wedding cake.
“I guess,” she said slowly “I would work my way down until I reached the bottom.”
No one replied; there was the unspoken understanding between the turtles that there was no bottom; it was just Turtles, all the way down.
“And then what?” Lucius finally asked.
“Don’t know.” Nemi admitted. “Maybe just come back? Or maybe discover…something. Something beyond comprehension.”
No one knew what to make of this, so they kept politely quiet, their game abandoned.
Much later, Clive awoke to a tickling sensation on his shell. He turned his head to see Nemi shuffling towards the edge. She had somehow slipped out from underneath Lucius (who was remarkably still asleep) and was, for the first time, unencumbered by the Tower.
She saw Clive stir and sighed.
“I’m sorry, old friend. But i just can’t accept that this is all there is to our lives.”
Clive said nothing.
“I know there might not be a bottom. I know I might just be climbing down for an eternity, taking longer and longer to cross the next turtle’s shell. But I can’t sit here and play Bridge and read books for the rest of eternity. That’s all I’ve ever done.”
Clive blinked slowly.
“I shall miss you, little Nemi. Don’t forget about us.”
Nemi smiled a turtle smile, and shuffled to the edge. She paused, and then slid off, dropping slowly until she hit Constance with a slight thud. She looked back up at Clive, waved, and then continued on towards the edge of the next shell.
“I hope you find what you are looking for, Nemi.” Clive called after her.
“That’s the great thing about an infinite universe Clive,” she called back, “I’m almost guaranteed to, sooner or later!”
The Earth, as it was generally understood to be, rested on the backs of four enormous Elephants, the supposed “four corners” of the Earth. These Elephants themselves are, in turn, supported from underneath by the titanic shell of a gigantic turtle. This turtle is supported from below by another, even bigger turtle, which in turn is supported from beneath by an even bigger turtle, and so on; Turtles all the way down. And if you went down far enough, you would find a turtle, dwarfed by her peers surrounding her, clambering steadily down, heading boldly into the unknown, discovering the mysteries of the universe.
Say you run into the creature from the Black Lagoon in a Costco parking lot on a bright sunny afternoon. The creature is just sitting by a massive tangle of blackberry surrounding a brackish drainage pond.
I mean, it’s still the scaly fish-faced, web-hand-and-toed biped meant to scare 1950s movie theater audiences, but it’s just sitting by the curb where your car is parked, looking like it might try to bum a few bucks off you.
Do you sprint screaming back into the store?
Or pull out two cans of Bodhisattva IPA from the case in your shopping cart and offer one to your down-and-out fellow creature?
Even twelve-year-old me knew that answer when I saw Creature from the Black Lagoon for the first time. The 1954 horror film was intended to foster fear of the primal unknown and its monstrous threats. Instead, it made me want to explore the densest jungles and dark backwaters to learn about life we had no idea existed.
You see, I don’t think the studio executives who signed off on that 3-D monster movie could ever have imagined it would help save our planet. But it did.
Because a kid like me was more interested in sharing a beer with a freak of nature than shooting it. Before the term was ever coined, I became a self-taught xenologist, searching for and studying life forms seemingly so alien that few believed they could or should arise on earth. I began to study extremophiles: creatures that find ways to thrive in the harshest environments: molten heat, arctic cold, toxic waste, dire radiation, etc.
And I found that I wasn’t alone. From microscopic one-celled protists like solarion arienae to towering 400 million-year-old prototaxite fungal fossils, more and more researchers were documenting thousands of new species each year in biology labs, in crusty museum collections, and in the field. I did my part. I went to earth’s far corners. I collected. I classified. I catalogued.
I collapsed.
It was too much for too few. I lost my breath in the frantic race to identify and preserve species before they were lost, before we could even understand what we were losing, when the total number of species and their potential benefits on our planet is poorly known.
So poorly known.
And I should know. Because, when I broke down, I had a breakthrough. I’d retreated to a little used research cabin deep in the North Cascades to hole up, hibernate and rejuvenate. As autumn turned to winter, as the cold and snow took hold, the routine of rugged living became restorative. Then it became a revelation.
One clear, crisp morning when foraging through an outer storage shed that had been half crushed by a fallen tree, I didn’t quite find the creature from the black lagoon sitting there (though maybe a very very distant relative) feasting on the detritus of the shed’s abundant plastic storage containers. It looked to be a kind of lichen, a colony of cyanobacteria I’d never encountered before.
And it was flourishing. Not just on the piles of plastic it was munching and mulching, but even old gear waterproofed with PFAS forever chemicals were on its diet. It didn’t take long for me and colleagues I shared the discovery with to understand the implications of a microorganism that could consume plastics and PFAS in almost any climate or condition. With a nod to the film that started me on my journey to know what was poorly known, I named the discovery obscurus lacuna.
It’s been a game changer for ridding our environment of persistent waste and toxins. And it’s made me hopeful. Hopeful that we’re finally learning how much richer our world is when our knowledge of it is not so poor.
Tara's eyes brightened. "Oh, wait! I just realized," she said. "You're 130 years old! There's no way that Alex could be your father!"
A guilty look crossed Lily's face. "Lily?" asked Tara. "You ARE 130 years old, right?"
"I… um… what I meant was…" Lily stuttered, "that a full-bloodeded demon can be 130 years old, and still be a teenager." She sighed and stared at the wall. "But I'm not a full-blooded demon, actually…."
... But at that moment, the islander woman had dropped the pouch of herbs, because it was melting and burning away in searing blue-white flame, and the smoke and ash was itself passing into nothingness.
Awe bloomed behind Majida's eyes, but her face was a stony mask, the face of cruel mercy and loving harshness. Her voice was grim and filled with confidence of a message from beyond the world. "I am an emissary of the Power which has taken away the secrets of men and women."
